


Enough

by clipper782



Category: Salad Fingers
Genre: Ableism, Autism, Child Abuse, Delusions, Dissociation, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gen, Married Couple, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Racism, Schizophrenia, Sexual Content, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-08-28 23:52:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8467795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clipper782/pseuds/clipper782
Summary: Work based on Salad Fingers, inspired by the Film Theory theory by MatPat. So Salad Fingers=Hubert Cumberdale and Jeremy Fisher is his father.Marjory Stewart-Baxter will do almost anything to save her husband from his own delusions, go to the ends of the earth, pretend to be a puppet. All that jazz. But our dear Hubert may be too far gone.





	1. He Likes Spoons Too

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously Salad Fingers is the creation of David Firth and MatPat is the one who makes the theories. I'm just here to write the story I feel I need to tell. Also its National Novel Writing Month. I don't think this will be 50 000 words, but it might take up the whole month.

“No matter what, you cannot speak to him. Is that clear?”

“What if he asks me a question?”

“Don't say anything. Even if he asks you a question.”

“Can I nod my head? Or shake it no?”

That might be pushing it. Marjory bit her lip. She did not know quite how to respond. “I wouldn't try it.” 

Maybe it had been too long. So much had happened, and while staying with her mother had for so long been a relief, in some ways it had made things worse. She had been gone too long. She was worried and didn't know what to expect.

She just knew it would be bad.

The English countryside was as beautiful as it had ever been but it held a much more foreboding air as they neared their destination. It seemed almost accusing. _Where did you come from? How long has it been? Where were you?_

“What if he asks me a really good question and I can't say yes or no?”

That was where she had been. Her little girl was nearing four now. The Logan estate whilst rather grand was no place to raise a child. Perhaps it never had been, but things had been so much better before. She wouldn't give up her little girl for anything though, not even for him. Deep down, she knew, deep down he wouldn't want her to.

The two of them arrived with little fanfare. They were welcomed quickly and ushered inside, met by Augusta Bainbridge, the Logan patriarch's younger widowed sister who was now in charge of his estate.

“You missed the funeral.” She said bluntly, a certain accusation in her eyes, hiding behind the glassy stare and round spectacles. 

Marjory bit back the urge to make a snarky remark, or even at least roll her eyes at this. She pursed her lips and remained silent. Not in front of her daughter.

“He is where he always is, that much's not changed. I trust you can figure out that much.”

So they were back to this then. Again she bit back a response. None of this had ever been helpful before. It was pure happenstance he had made it out with anything unbroken in his mental state. This was not a place to go to fix it. But it was familiar and she supposed that counted for something.

“Do I have to be quiet now mama?”

“Not yet, Yvonne.” But of course it wouldn't hurt. The two of them were left alone as the lady of the house returned to whatever important thing she had interrupted. Marjory and her daughter made their way out to the guest house.

In truth it wasn't really a guest house. It had been built up on the property for the exact purpose it now served. To keep their little Hubert all locked up and under watch, and most importantly away from normal people.

It hadn't worked out so well, but then again maybe she only had herself to blame for that.

The locks had all been broken when she got there. Someone, likely Hubert himself, had taken a sledgehammer to the front windows. Nevertheless, she could hear him inside, humming some foreign tune to himself.

“Now Yvonne. Absolute silence.”

The young girl nodded not saying a word. She didn't really want the girl to come in with her, who knew what the place would look like.

“Stay out here in the gardens until I come to get you, okay?”

Again the girl nodded.

Smiling, Marjory finally opened the door. It creaked halfway through and the humming from inside stopped.

The place wasn't so bad, she considered, not as bad as she was expecting, but she still hadn't seen the man himself. What would he be like?

He entered the main room slowly, and she noticed in the instant his eyes were rimmed with red, raw and dry and baggy, like he hadn't slept for at least a month. 

“Wh-who's there? I don't take kindly to intruders.” He seemed to perk up when he noticed her though, “Oh! Marjory Stewart-Baxter! What are you doing here? I don't remember that... that you were coming today.”

Marjory said nothing. She wanted to hold him very very close to her, yet she didn't dare.

“Oh is it... It must be time for the wedding. Oh you need to get prepared, Hubert Cumberdale. I must help you ... help him fit into his wedding suit. I'm sure you will find your gown in the... bedroom closet.” Hubert's voice dropped to a whisper, “But don't let him see you in it. Its bad luck before the wedding.”

Marjory fought the horrid urge to laugh. What could possibly be worse luck than this?

*

Yvonne was a simple girl. She liked the pretty flowers in the garden. In her bag she had her favorite doll. She loved her mother and always tried to listen to her. She loved her daddy probably more than anyone else. And of course, she could never resist a good tea party.

Her mother still hadn't come out of that house, but _he_ had. And he had all manner of wonderful treats. He was lovely and she loved him. And she just couldn't help herself when he needed cheering.

“I think he likes spoons too.” It wasn't much, but it was enough. She couldn't take it back. He fell stricken. She saw her mother move from the window to the door and in his haste to get away from her. (And why would he need to get away from her?) He knocked into mother in the door frame.

“Hubert please...” But he was gone. Yvonne heard a door slam and lock. And then lock again. And again. And again.

Her mother only sighed.

“I'm sorry Mummy! I... I only wanted to help!”

Marjory looked at her daughter with a small smile. “Perhaps we should try again tomorrow.”

*

Marjory invited herself to stay in the main house. No one could complain, not legitimately anyway. This was her husbands house now, even if it didn't quite seem that way. That made her the lady of the house. Bainbridge would have to be glad she wasn't demanding the master suite. Going down to the kitchens for something to eat, and then bringing it back up to the Eastern room to eat with her daughter, she heard the humming again.

Hubert was out in the gardens packing up his tea. He seemed to be okay, despite that afternoon's events. If that was what passed for okay nowadays. She wished things could be easier for him, really she did, this had gotten way beyond out of control though, and there wasn't a soul alive who could help him. Lord knows she had tried. Driving all around the country to find the best people, the best doctors, all with conflicting advice, all with conflicting treatment plans, not a one of which ever had worked. No one knew what to do with him. She wanted him to be there for their daughter. That was likely never going to happen.

“Did you get the eggs mama?” Yvonne had peeked her head into the hallway. She was wearing the cutest nightgown in white and pink. She looked just like a little dolly. Hubert would like that. Then she'd talk again and any false sense of progress would be lost. She should just stop pretending.

“Yes, I got the eggs. Now quick to bed so we can have our dinner and wake to see the sun rise.”

*

Two weeks later, Hubert dug up a corpse. Bainbridge had nearly fainted, but Marjory watched it all in morbid curiosity. Why in the hell would there be a dead man buried on the estate's property anyway. Kenneth Logan-Price had died in the Great War, his remains were scattered off on some Dutch or French battlefield across the ocean. Hubert never had a brother. Bainbridge was in no mood to speak to her, figuring out what to do and trying to keep the household in order. So Marjory went for the next best thing. Hubert himself. 

Hubert wasn't always Hubert. Sometimes he was Bainbridge, or Logan, or Jeremy, or even Marjory herself. He had been Marjory herself after their last fight had happened. She had gotten quite good at figuring them all out, all the different personas he could wear. Today he was Barbara. She had not thought Barbara to be one for flirting with her own brother, though she had never known the woman and the corpse was still unrecognizable. Unsettling and unrecognizable.

“That's not Kenneth.” She whispered, from behind him at the table. “Who is this man?”

“You are no fun Marjory Stewart-Baxter. I liked you better when you didn't talk.” She tried not to take it too personally.

“Why is there a dead man buried in your yard?”

“He is Kenneth. Back from the Great War to sow his wild oats. Isn't that right sailor?”

The corpse of course, said nothing. It was missing too many of the necessary muscles. Even its skin was.... Marjory shuddered slightly looking at it, but being so close there was no mistaking it. 

She recalled what Yvonne had told her recently. She hadn't thought it that important at the time, but there it was. “Daddy was talking to the well. He told it that it had the wrong bloke. He even called it squire. How silly.”

The elder Logan used to tell the story, only in quiet tones, only for intimidation. What he did to Hubert's father. “One bullet, right between the eyes. Boy begged for mercy said I got the wrong bloke, look at em, look at yourself boy, say I've got the wrong ruddy bloke, see how well that did him...”

The elder Logan told many half-truths, but there wasn't a doubt in her mind that she was currently staring into the cold dead eye sockets of one Jeremy Fisher. He certainly wasn't Kenneth. Whatever Kenneth had been, he had most certainly been white. She didn't even want to begin to guess at what was going on in her husband's mind that he was pretending this man was someone he was not despite quite obviously knowing who he had at his table. He was Barbara after all. As far as she knew Barbara had never had a sexual relationship with her brother. While Hubert himself was proof that she had definitely done the deed with Jeremy Fisher.

In the end Hubert put the corpse back in the ground and laid him to rest. To return to the Great War. He cried, but whether it was as himself for his father, or as his mother, for either a lost love or a lost brother she did not know. Perhaps it was all three. He was a talented man, her husband. It was an unspoken rule that nobody in the household speak of the incident ever again, but it could not be denied that it happened. And for Marjory, it took her to looking at things in a new way. Yes things were as bad as they had ever been. But now she had something firm set into her mind. Whether that something was smart or wise would remain to be seen.

But she would do almost anything to get her husband back.

*

The book wouldn't fit under the door, and it was locked about four times over, so she threw it in the newly fixed window and flinched when she heard the glass break. She had found it in the attic. It wasn't anything new for Hubert. He had been the one to share it with her after all. Not the actual book, just a word for word rendition of what he had read in it once upon a time when he was small and alone. Her husband could memorize anything, and recite it back any time, like he was a player in his own life, rather than an ordinary person. He had told her it was the only way he felt, the only way he knew how to bring his loved ones to life. Both of his parents were virtual unknowns to him, as fate had been cruel, but by taking in everything he could he could recreate what he knew of their lives over and over and over. It was the closest he could ever get to being with them. 

The thought had made her sad, but she realized it ran deeper than that. There were always parts of the story she didn't know.

Logan's journal made no mention of Fisher begging for his life. It proudly proclaimed that Logan had shot the defenseless man as he was saying “Our Father”. Why Logan was so proud of being a dishonorable cur she would never know. 

The next morning Hubert was reciting Our Father to the old well. He got through the whole thing. Had Jeremy Fisher been a Catholic? The Logans were Anglican.

The next thing she sent through the window was a Catholic Rosary. It wasn't anything too fancy. He wore it under his clothes “From this day until the grave.” What a lovely turn of phrase. Her husband was always talented with words.

Marjory took to a new routine. After dinner she put her daughter to sleep in their room on the Eastern side of the house, and left under the cover of darkness to search for things that could help Hubert. Something from Barbara perhaps. Had she written anything about her time with Fisher? It would certainly be preferable to digging up misidentified corpses.

For the first few nights her search brought her nothing but a nosy Bainbridge scolding her for trying to sneak extra food from the kitchens. (“You'll start putting on the pounds and then how will you ever find yourself a proper husband?”). Marjory didn't bother to correct her. It was better she think her some common guilty pleasure seeker than someone trying to rifle through her family's belongings. Though truly it was her family too now wasn't it?

On the fourth night she found a doll that used to belong to Barbara. She brought it to him and when she visited him the next morning he let her hold his hand without so much as flinching. Progress was going well. Hopefully he wouldn't give the doll his mother's name and subject it to a reenacted death scene

It was another week until she found the letters. They were all addressed to .Jeremy Fisher, all signed by Barbara Logan-Price. They all said much the same thing. The good soldier had knocked her up on shore leave and she was having his child. Some of them seemed pleading, some matter-of-fact. A couple even sounded angry. Marjory wondered if there was one missing, the one that Barbara had finally deemed good enough to send. They were all locked up under the floor board. Barbara was probably too afraid to even burn them. The elder Logan had probably never found them. The lot of them went straight to Hubert's door. While he chided momentarily about the mess of papers strewn across his floor, the next day's visit was the best she's had since long before the first time she'd left this dreary place, Yvonne in tow.

“Its Jeremy Fisher. Back from the Great War.”

Marjory did not respond.

“Aren't you going to greet me properly then Barbara?”

It had always made her uncomfortable when he wanted to role play as his own parents, but she would take what she could get. Any progress was good progress. She moved to embrace him.

She took on the tone and cadence she knew from him approximated Barbara Logan-Price. “Maybe you can tuck me in tonight, sailor.”

And though it was only around midday, that was exactly what he did.

*

What would he do? Mother never told him this part. Of course she didn't why would she tell him that. He was strong though she told him, muscular, though not too much larger than her. A soldier, masculine. He held her down, not unpleasantly. It had been her idea she hadn't told him, in case he died in the Great War she had told him. She never told him what but he knew now oh yes he knew now. She'd written something lewd he'd found when he dug into the basements and into the walls. Hubert couldn't read it but Jeremy loved it. He could be Jeremy. Had to be. Who else would? 

He'd start with the fingers. That's what the words said. ( _I know a good use for those salad fingers_ Marjory would say, but Marjory was not here. Of course not. Absurd.) two of them inside, working the thumb on the little nub at the top. Marjory-Barbara-Marjory-Barbara moaned at that, arching up. She was already so wet. Was that now or was that in the words? He'd slide his manhood into her then, alongside what was already there. So lewd but again, Jeremy loved it. Marjory-Barbara-Marjory clenched around him as he-ah. Who was it again? Those names were all lost.

“Hubert!”

Hubert never read such things of course, but somehow he knew how to do it.

*

Bainbridge was glaring at her. Like she knew what had happened. She wouldn't be surprised. The old bat could probably smell it on her. She would have to draw herself a bath that afternoon after she took her lunch alone with Yvonne. Sweet Yvonne who did not know of such grown up things and hopefully would not for quite a long while. It wasn't as if she wrote such things down for impressionable youth to find. A quick thought crossed her mind of Yvonne and her future husband role playing as her and Hubert, and as absurd and embarrassing as such a thought was it had her giggling like a girl all the way to the kitchens.

*

Her search stalled soon after that though, and Hubert was spending a horribly oppressive amount of time hidden in his quadruple locked safe room where she could not hope to enter. So instead she focused her efforts onto exploring the countryside with Yvonne. For good measure of course, everyone over the age range of her and Hubert plus about ten years was asked two questions. What can you tell me about Barbara Logan-Price? And, What can you tell me about Jeremy Fisher? Of course, Marjory tried to be more subtle about it than that, but she was never quite as good at subtlety as some thought she ought to be.

The first man, probably in his sixties, went like this.

“Oh hello! My daughter and I are staying at the Logan Estate. They're a pretty prominent family, around these parts, aren't they.”

“Oh yes. Milford was a good man. Shame about what happened to his daughter.”

“Oh?”

“Taken advantage of and then left all alone by that negro sailor from... Now where was he from? Ah well. Everyone knows what happened. No use hiding it from a friend of the family.”

Marjory did not bother correcting him on her place in the family.

The next was a woman, probably in her early forties. More the age of Barbara than the elder Logan.

“Yes, of course! Barbara and I used to go down to the lake and tell each other stories of fancy, or of terror if it were night.” The last part she added in a whisper.

“Did she tell you anything about Jeremy Fisher?”

The woman got a suspicious look but continued anyway. “Only that he was coming back to her and the baby. He never did though.” She frowned. “I take it you've met Hubert, yes?”

“That's my daddy's name!” Yvonne chirped happily.

The woman turned to Marjory with pity in her eyes. “Don't we all make mistakes sometimes.” Then she shook her head and walked away.

That was enough sleuthing for one day. Although she did take a visit to the aforementioned lake. While nothing of Barbara would remain there after all these years, it was still a lovely spot to visit with Yvonne.

*


	2. From Here Until The Grave

Augusta Bainbridge had known Marjory Stewart-Baxter since the girl was six years old. She was the daughter of her most reliable household staff member. Maxine Baxter had worked for the Bainbridge family since, well, since before Augusta's husband had up and died. Even before her wayward sons became so wayward. While she found Maxine pleasant enough company the girl was another story altogether. She was too quick, too dirty, too nonchalant. She would play in the gardens, in the kitchens, in the hallways, and would always just shrug off any attempt at scolding. Taking the strap to her didn't seem to have much effect either. It didn't even seem to faze her. She'd take it and then be off again to cause trouble and mischief.

It was pure luck on her part that she had managed to be of an age with Hubert. Augusta never liked her hanging around with her impressionable young nephew, but she didn't have much choice. Hubert was shy and reclusive and ran from most children his age. For him, it would have to be Marjory Stewart-Baxter or nothing.

Some days Augusta wished she had chosen nothing.

The boy had had a bad case of gout when he was only a wee babe, leaving his fingers hardened, discoloured, and oddly shapen. He could barely hold a pencil grip and his knuckles cracked quite unpleasantly. She had been very stern against his little 'Salad Fingers' nickname he had cultivated before he had ever come to live with his, hushing it off the lips and tongue of any unfortunate enough to utter it.

That was, until little Marjory heard it and it became her favourite thing to say. She would tell the girl she was far from clever, but every day she would call for him down the hallways “Saaalad Fingers! Saaaallllaaad Fiiiingers!”

Ad every day he would come to her, a coy smile on his face.

Augusta Bainbridge did not like to feel powerless, especially in the face of such a small little girl. But what could she do?

No matter who he is, no boy outgrows his first love.

*

When Bainbridge had thrown her own fancy do for Hubert Cumberdale's nineteenth birthday party, the last thing Marjory expected to be was invited, but there it was, a letter from the postman, inviting her to attend the party.

At the time she hadn't seen either one of them for nearly half a decade. She was no longer a child, a default part of the household simply because her mother was. She hadn't even been in the house since that summer she was twelve years old.She was attending the girls' school in the city now. She wasn't even sure how she would get back to that place she had ended up spending most of her childhood, but she was sure she would find a way to do so.

It would be rude to refuse an invitation from her patron after all.

*

“Salad Fingers!” The last time she had seen the boy, her closest childhood friend. Only childhood friend.

The boy, who was nearly fourteen now and not quite a boy anymore, peeked into the hallway, his hands fidgeting at his chest. “Marjory Stewart-Baxter!” It was a quiet breath of her name, but excited. The closest he would get to loud on most days.

When she got up to him he stepped out from the doorway he was partially hidden behind, his eyes wide with what seemed like fascination. “Come with me, Marjory Stewart-Baxter. I have something... to show you.”

She went along with him because she always did, but the things he found that fascinated him were always much more appealing to him than they would ever be to her. Like rusty spoons, they were his favourite. Though she did not see the appeal, she was always on the lookout for whatever rusty objects she could find to take back to him. He always appreciated it and treasured every one. It pleased her, being able to make him happy, even if what made him happy was more than a bit weird. 

He led her upstairs to his own bedroom. Mother always chided her for going into the bedroom with him. Not appropriate she would say. What did she think they were doing in there? Nothing that would make even the strictest of nuns blush anyway. The thought of sweet Hubert involved in anything like that was too much to wrap her head around. At least when she was twelve. At seventeen she could think of it as easily as her own name, but that was getting ahead of herself.

Her mother had spoken to her in private once about Hubert and how he wasn't all he seemed. She had called him a bastard and Marjory had stopped listening. Her mother hadn't tried to tell her that particular line of thought again.

Hubert ushered her inside the room, and made sure the door was locked. “Don't want any... peeping Toms or... or nosy Nancys here do we.... Marjory Stewart-Baxter?”

She quickly agreed, urging him to get on with it.

“I came across some-some items of interest. In my recent travels.” He knelt down beside his bed, pulling out a small trunk from under the bedskirts. He unlocked it while Marjory peered over his shoulder trying to see what was inside.

It was a book. Lying on top of some clothes, but the book was what was important.

“Grandfather doesn't know I have it. He will be cross when he finds out.” Whether he was talking more to her or more to himself, Marjory did not know. She was more curious about the book itself anyway.

“What's inside?” She asked. 

Hubert held a finger up to his lips. He beckoned her closer. Not being able to get much closer than she already was, Marjory knelt next to him on the floor.

Hubert opened the book and she peered into it.

_April 7th 1915. Jeremy is returning to the trenches tomorrow. I don't know what I'll do if he doesn't come back. I want to end the war just so I can keep him beside me. Is that selfish? After what we've done_ \--

Hubert shut the book again, his face red.

“It's from your mother.”

Hubert nodded.

She leaned into him and hugged him. “I'm glad you have it. Your grandfather can sod off if he finds it missing... You'll show me the scenes right?” Hubert always showed her the scenes from the past, acting them out word for word, even teaching her to participate.

He looked at her with an odd look in his eyes. She didn't recognize it, but it was nothing that worried her. 

“I can show you.” He laid his hand on her inner thigh, just underneath the hem of her skirt.

“Hubert?”

“You always do things that make me feel good. Now I know how to do the same for you.” He rested his hand just right there on her thigh. She grabbed him by the wrist, gently, debating whether to push him away or draw him closer.

Her mother would have been furious with her decision. She made it anyway.

*

Marjory was a tad bit more world wise at seventeen. Knowing Hubert had gotten that out of his Mother's diary was a bit unsettling, but not as unsettling as the thought of him having found another girl to play the role of Barbara. Rationally the thought didn't make much sense, Hubert did not exactly know many girls, but on her way to his home that unusually bright November morning it was all she could think of. Maybe that was why Bainbridge had invited her, to show her just how disposable she had truly been to her... her Hubert she supposed.

Of course she had brought him a gift. The sales clerk had eyed her strangely when she mentioned the thing she was buying was supposedly a gift for someone. That had been how she knew for sure she had gotten it right, at least as long as Hubert hadn't changed that much. It had only been four years.

Or was that, it had been an entire four years?

She sighed, fidgeting in the back of the car Bainbridge had so kindly sent to pick her up. Though perhaps she was reading too much into it. Perhaps she simply wanted her nephew to have an old friend at his party. Perhaps it was her mother who had asked after her and the older woman was simply obliging. Perhaps pigs flew in the clouds and hell was made of lemondrops Perhaps a lot of things.

Perhaps the car had stopped and she was already there. That wasn't exactly a perhaps so much as what had happened. Shakily, she got out of the car.

It was her mother who greeted her and welcomed her into the home. The same old house she had always remembered. Same old staff, same old carpets, same old Bainbridge. She stepped into the main hall.

Not same old Hubert Cumberdale. He was taller now, broad shouldered. Certainly more handsome. But he’d always had that hadn’t he? His eyes darted quickly around the room, to her, and away again. Although his gaze did not meet hers, not at first anyway. She couldn’t help noticing what he was wearing. Fancy tailored suit, blue tie, even his shoes shone. He looked like a cornered animal. He made a move to walk towards her but stopped himself. Averted his gaze again.

She wondered what was wrong.

She quickly moved over to him before being intercepted. Bainbridge. She seemed oddly cross with her.

“I trust you are here to congratulate our Hubert on his grand accomplishments.”

Not really much of an accomplishment. Just living so long.

“Of course. I got your invitation.” She paused her as the older woman’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “I was just about to go and speak with him. If you would…”

“Yes, yes. Quite.” She stopped and looked down at Marjory, which was quite a feat given how much shorter the older woman was.

“I’ll be going to see him now?”

“Nonsense. I’ll take you to him.” 

He wasn’t that far away, and clearly visible, but Marjory let herself be led.

Bainbridge walked her over, the few yards, to where her nephew was standing awkwardly among his guest.

“Hubert. Your dear friend Ms Baxter has come to congratulate you on all your accomplishments.”

“Accomplishments?” He said. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”

He still sounded the same.

“Happy Birthday, Hubert.” Marjory said.

And with that Bainbridge left them, to mingle with the guests, most likely. That was odd but there wasn’t much about this that was not odd. 

Marjory thought it was doubtful that Hubert had gained true friendship with all of these guests somehow, and their patronage, given that he had always been shy and friendless. Reclusive and locked away.

When Bainbridge was out of sight he grasped her hands, both of them in his, 

“Come along with me, we have much to discuss.” She agreed with little prompting still somewhat shocked that the voice she remembered so well was coming from this man who had seemed so different from the boy she had left. But as he pulled her down into the hallway, the differences seemed to all melt away. Same old Hubert.

“I had to bring you back here.” He said. “Aunty Bainbridge was not too fond of the idea but… I needed you to come back here… for my special day…” He was rubbing the inside of her palms with his thumbs.

“Why is that?” She asked, after unsuccessfully fighting the urge to do so.

“Because it is my… my special day… And I missed you… ever so much…”

She smiled at him. “Have I changed?” She asked.

He furrowed his brow, looked her up and down. “You’re right taller. And all…” He waved his hands around in ways as if to say something she could not quite articulate either. “But no. Unchanged as ever.”

“You as well,” she replied politely, into an embrace. She felt him grin against her shoulder.

“That’s splendid.” He moved his head up from her shoulder and turned his head towards her to whisper in her ear. “Do you know what else is splendid?”

She silently willed him to not go onto some tangent about spoons or so help her she would storm out of this house and never return. (Although she would, she would simply not be that night)

“Come with me.” She did.

That was how she found herself, again at the right mercy of Hubert Cumberdale.

“At least this time we’ve got all proper… In the bed.”

“Do you know what you’re doing?” She asked him. From What she could tell, he more than did. She had to admit, the image of this man who hovered over top her and the knowledge of who he was did things to her. Quite sinful things if she were to be honest.

“I do. I read about it.” He said.

Where he read about it she did not know. Perhaps Bainbridge had some naughty reading materials hidden away from her polite company.

“You should wait.” She said. “Is this not sinful?” She did not want to get into trouble. It was different now than the first time, and at even a hint of that her mother had thrown her into remedial everything and sent her for religious teachings. She’d spent too long being a model student, even if it was nothing new.”

“Not if we were married!”

“We’re not.”

He looked to be thinking this over. Adorable. “Give me some time… I can… figure it out.”

She gave a little laugh and looked at him bemusedly. “What is there to figure out?”

He waved her off. “I can figure it out but… In the meantime…”

Hubert disappeared deep within the sheets and Marjory would not think to continue to tell about what happened next.

*

The rest of the part was rather bland. Luckily Bainbridge didn’t send her away as soon as she declared the night to be over. 

“Why don’t you spend the night.” She had said. “In the Eastern Wing.”

Marjory agreed. It was far too late to be travelling and, well, there was no reason not to accept the sleeping arrangements.

It was the next morning that shocked the entire household, as well as Marjory. Hubert had bags under his eyes and a ring in his hands.

“Will you marry me, Marjory Stewart-Baxter?”

What else was there to say?

They had a Christmas wedding and not long after a child on the way. 

Marjory began to think that maybe she’d been gone for too long. Or maybe she’d just been more ignorant of Hubert’s more eccentric eccentricities when she was a mere child herself. Whatever it was things didn’t quite go according to plan. Things seldom do though. But, for Marjory at least, there was nothing to regret. Did she wonder about her husband, yes. Did she worry for him? Of course. Especially as his state got worse as the months went by.

She never did figure out where he got the ring from that night. She decided very quickly that she did not want to know. But she still wore it. No matter what happened, how bad Hubert got, how far apart they were or for how long, she would always wear that ring.

From then until the grave.


	3. Little Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes the death of a pregnant woman and her unborn child. I'm not sure how to tag that, so I'm just putting it in here.

Barbara Logan-Price had been living in the city with her husband and son until just a short time ago. It hadn’t ended up going as well as she had hoped. Burt Price seemed to act kindly enough to her and even to her boy for the most part, but there was something sinister about him Barbara did not quite like even as she was made to make a life with him as his wife. When she was nearing the end of her pregnancy, with the first child she would have with Burt Price, her father called the three of them to his home.

Barbara had spent the last few years in and out of her father’s home; her old home from childhood, so it wouldn’t be too strange for her to go back. Burt wasn’t having the best time in finding work in the city, he had never been as good as… But Burt had no problem packing them up and taking them to her father’s home.

She had quickly reclaimed her old room, despite being put up in a different one with Burt. She mostly let him stay there during the day while she spent her time with Hubert, whether in her old room, uncovering her old secrets, or in the gardens. Hubert was a quiet boy; shy. The sensitive sort, she supposed. Burt didn’t like it but she thought it was fine. Burt would say “As long as he’s living in my home he can act the way I think he ought to.” But they weren’t in his home now, and despite what her own father thought on the matter, he had long since ceased trying to correct either of them. 

Burt got on quite well with her father though, as he always had. He was the one who had ‘secured the match’ or so he liked to call it. She wasn’t a very eligible prize, what with Hubert as her added bonus. It wasn’t too bad for her, she would have been fine with it just being her and Hubert, but that was not fine for her father. So, of course, she followed his lead on this as well as other things.

On a particular day it was very nice outside, sunny and bright, and she was gathering up her things to sit in the gardens with Hubert.

“Mama, what does cun-ni-lin-gus mean?” Hubert was reading from the old diary she had sworn she had hidden away. Well, she certainly would not be bringing that thing in particular.

She swiped the book from him and tucked it away safe in its nice little hiding spot. “It means don’t try to read other peoples books, Hubert.” She chided.

Hubert looked slightly sullen but followed her out into the back garden, dressed up neatly in a precocious little suit. She loved dressing him up. She hoped she would have a girl this time, because girls were even better for dressing up.

“What will we name the girl?” Hubert had asked. She had not decided then.

“I’ve decided what to name the girl,” She told Hubert as the sat down on the garden bench, looking down towards the river.

“Oh? What is it, mama?”

“Eloise.” 

“Oh Eloise! Little sister! Elo-Elo-Eloise!” Hubert sang as he danced around the garden. So young and carefree. She had been that child once.

“Burt is coming back tonight after you go to bed.” She told him. Burt had been gone for a few days, doing some work for someone in town that she had only half paid attention to.

“Oh good! I won’t… I won’t have to… I mean. It will be nice for you. To have him here.”

Barbara furrowed her brow. Had Hubert been happier while Burt was gone? Yes. Definitely. But that was just to be expected wasn’t it?

After she tucked him into bed that night she waited up in her old childhood room for Burt to arrive. When he did, she heard her father invite him downstairs for drinks. She couldn’t help feel a little annoyed by this, but it wasn’t as if she had been waiting in his room, she had just thought he would come see her before he went downstairs to share a few drinks with his father-in-law.

An hour later, with a loud bang coming from somewhere down below, she had to conclude it had been more than just a few drinks. She supposed she should probably go check on them, like as not nobody else would do it.

She probably should not have gone down to check on them. They did not notice her. They were laughing, and it could be heard from the top of the stairwell, what a boorish display, no wonder they had hidden out of the public eye (not that their private home was public but still…) The noise had come from, of all things, a shotgun blast and really she would have thought her father to have more sense than that.

“So that’s how you did it, huh?”

“Oh yes.”

“What did you… do with it?”

“Huh? Ah, buried in the yard. Bleached out the dirt so nothing could grow there.” He spit into a cup which was dirty and wrong. They weren’t a high ranking house but they were not… and this was her father, always so proper and… and what was he talking about because it kind of sounded like…

“Should I be worried then?”

Another round of laughter from the elder man.

“What? Afraid to end up like Jeremy Fisher? Ha! Boy was dead as soon as he stepped off that boat and onto my property.” He took a drink from his cup. Not the same one he had spit into.

Barbara backed slowly out of the stairwell. So. So he. So that was. Ah. Well then. The shock still hadn’t worn off before she found herself crying. Well that certainly wasn’t helpful was it?

Jeremy Fisher was dead, and her father had killed him. The past seven years of her life crashed down around her as everything she knew got overturned with just two simple facts she hadn’t know before.

Jeremy Fisher was dead. Milford Logan had killed him.

She had cursed the man for leaving her, always secretly wanting him to come back. She’d let him come back. Even if he left again. At least he could tell her the reason he left… But there was no reason he left. He didn’t leave. He was… Christ, he was still there. He was there in the gardens, Oh God he was _still there_.

Well, only one thing to do now. She knew how she would be spending the rest of her night, and it was not by sleeping.

*

He was awoken abruptly that night by his mother, shaken and pale, standing over his bed and shaking him by the shoulders. She didn’t look good. She might have been crying. He did not know. He thought for a moment it must be the baby, but he didn’t know what she would be waking him up for.

“Come with me Hubert Cumberdale. Be quick about it. Quiet too.” Her voice dipped and wavered matching her appearance. She had always been sickly, at least ever since she’d had him, so he didn’t think much of that. He was only a child after all. He did as his mother asked, and allowed her to lead him downstairs and out of the house into the backyard. It was dark, just barely illuminated by the moon in the sky. It must have been quite late.

He followed his mother to the garden shed where she handed him a shovel, more like thrust it into his hands. It was far too big for him.

“Do you know where the garden is bleached out?” She whispered, words almost taken away by the wind.

He did. He took her there and she began to dig. She bade him to do so as well.

“What are we looking for, Mama?” He asked, struggling to get the spade into the ground, and struggling even more to get it back up.

Barbara Logan-Price had a hard but distant look on her face, though only one side was visible in the moonlight. 

“Jeremy Fisher.” She said.

Hubert wasn’t sure he wanted to do this anymore, but he did as his mother asked.

*

Of course he was there. How could he not be. She had never doubted her father before.

Jeremy Fisher back from the Great War. He didn’t look so good. Being dead seven years could do that to a person.

And they had just laughed. Like as much they were still laughing. The finger where her wedding ring sat began to itch and then to burn. She tore off the ring and threw it towards her father’s house. It wasn’t a place for her anymore.

“Mama?” Hubert was still there. He looked frightened and confused. Poor boy. She knelt down and kissed his forehead, before turning to the makeshift grave. Jeremy Fisher wore two dog tags around his neck. She tore them off, noting that they gave far too easily from the dead flesh. She wrapped one around her hand (like a rosary) and gently hooked the other around Hubert’s neck.

“You know I love you, right?”

He nodded. She kissed him again.

“Go inside and go to bed.”

He ran off, almost grateful for being dismissed from the morbid scene.

Barbara turned again to Jeremy Fisher. He still wore his military uniform. It was dirty and withered, but it was still there. The first pocket she checked she found a kerchief with the initials B.L. sewn on, somewhat sloppily. A favour for her soldier. She sobbed into it as she stretched herself over the corpse. The next pocket was even worse. It was a cheap band of a ring that was definitely worse for the wear of the bleached dirt, but it must have been meant for her. It quickly replaced the one she had rid herself of. There were army documents in the third pocket. Leave granted for July 3rd until July 21st 1915. She didn’t much care about that. She let them be. The final pocket had a prize. Jeremy’s swiss army knife. There were all sorts of good tools on there. She cast a glance back towards the house. She could still hear their laughter, whether it was from the basement or her own mind, mocking her, it made her ill.

Her own father, and he had taken everything from her. Everything. This was a life she should be living with Jeremy. The child in her belly should be Jeremy’s. And they had the nerve to laugh at her? After what he had done? And Burt was almost worse. Acting like he had done such a fine favour by marrying her and getting her with child. Merriment and mockery shining in his eyes and his loud chuckling as her own father described what he had done to Jeremy. She wished they would die. She felt disgusting. She wanted them gone. Gone gone gone. More than anything she didn’t want to be near them, didn’t want to see them ever again.

She popped the knife out of its compartment. It was sharp to the touch. She wrapped herself around the corpse, fitting herself into the ground itself, and opened her own neck from ear to ear.

She heard her father’s screams just before she lost consciousness for the final time in her life. It made her smile. Let him scream, let him fret. Let him reap the consequences of what he’s done. Let him answer to…

Oh no.

*

He had tried to follow his mother’s instructions, but he had been bitten by the bugs of curiosity, and he hid outside the patio, watching his mother.

When he saw what she did with the knife he raced off to tell his grandfather.

The man wasn’t happy to see him, although he was never happy to see him, so it wasn’t much of a shock.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed, boy?” He asked sneering down at him along with Burt Price. They must have done something mean to his mother and he accused them of as much.

“Mother told me to help her. You were too cruel for her. We went digging in the gardens.”

The older man went pale. “What are you talking about boy, why would you go digging in the gardens?”

“To find Jeremy Fisher.” That did it. Hubert’s grandfather shot out of his chair and grabbed him by the shoulders, eyes wide, but much more sober than before.

“Where is she now?”

Hubert couldn’t meet his eyes as they gazed at him with such intensity. “She cut herself. The red water came out. Lots of the red water.”

“From where?”

Hubert lifted his chin and motioned a finger across his neck. In a flash, Milford Logan was gone. Hubert followed after him, not much enjoying the thought of being stuck alone in the same room as Burt Price, who tended to frighten him more than anyone else.

He was not allowed back out into the garden. Like his Mother, Milford sent him up to bed. Harshly.

He came in later. It was almost like deja vu. The exact same thing as when his mother came in only hours before. It had been only hours before, hadn’t it.

“Do not mention what has happened here tonight to anyone. Ever. Not the staff, not your friends. Not even family.”

Hubert nodded.

“If you breathe a word of this to anyone I will make sure you regret it.”

Hubert nodded.

“I’ll beat you so hard you’ll wish you were never born.”

Hubert nodded.

“…I wish you were never born.”

Hubert was still a moment. Then he nodded to that as well. But Milford was already gone.

*

The consensus was, his grandfather had told him, that the baby had ended up coming early. It had been a breech birth and both mother and child were lost. They had called the doctor in but there was nothing he could do. (Was the doctor in on it too, Hubert wondered, since they did not call the doctor for a breech birth). Both Mother and child were buried down by the river, under Barbara’s favourite tree. Hubert would be free to visit them there, whenever he was at the house at least. He wasn’t really to sure where he would be going now. He hoped he could stay for at least a while, after all, how else could he make those visits and, well, his mother’s old books certainly were not going to read themselves.

Maybe he’d pack them up when he left.

*

Milford Logan had his lips pursed, brow furrowed and eyes set, sternly watching as his doctor signed off on the report.

“I’m sorry about your daughter, Milford. She’ll be missed around here.”

Whether or not the doctor actually bought the story he’d given was not important. He’d signed the document, and now it was fact. Barbara and Eloise had died in a tragic accident during the birthing process and had been buried together under the tree by the river, where Barbara had played as a child. That was not…

“Jokes on you.” The voice reverberated within his head. He cringed, trying not to make it too visible, since the doctor was still there. Hopefully he did not notice. “We did it there too!” There was laughter, but it wasn’t real.

“Thank you for your sympathies, Doctor.”

The doctor nodded and left.

“Doesn’t matter where you put her. You know she’s with me now.”

Time for a hit of Laudanum a cold retreat and perhaps a fretful rest. There would not be time to grieve.


	4. Jeremy Fisher Back From The Great War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that took an incredibly long time, didn't it! I've been having a bit of life happening but it isn't happening quite so much now, so... Good on that I guess.

Jeremy Fisher had a great affinity for horses. He had ever since he was a child, though throughout his youth he was not so fortunate as to be around them as often as he would have liked. His family was not rich and nor were they that rural. They lived in a small town yes, but it was a town nonetheless, and their living conditions were not what one might call conducive to keeping horses.

In the spring of 1910, Jeremy Fisher was hired on as a stable hand for the derby. He knew about horses, in his younger days he had been around them much more, but that was before his family had come to the town in England. He wasn't expected to know much though. He cleaned the stables, he groomed the horses, and very occasionally he dealt with some wealthy man or another who owned the horses. 

Rarely he dealt with their sons. Petulant and out of line, but Jeremy was in no position to deal with them. Just do what they said and hope their fathers came for them sooner rather than later. He did try to keep out of trouble as best he could. All he really wanted was to do his job, and of course, to be around the horses. They were so much better company than the humans around them. And they loved him too. Like over-sized dogs, in a way.

Only once he dealt with one of their daughters. She was not a child, like many of the sons, but she was small and looked lost. She did not wear any shoes. She singled him out immediately. Why was it always him they found? 

"I need to see my father's horse." She said, standing tall, yet her eyes did not find his, nor him at all, which combined with her lack of shoes made her entire demeanor seem off.

"Which one?" He asked, though he really shouldn't. No matter what happened from here though, he would certainly get into trouble. There never seemed to be a good enough way to avoid it.

"That one." She pointed towards it. A red stallion, three years old. A normal derby horse. He was more shy than the other horses, would always try to sneak up behind him to bother for apples. Not really a very easy thing to do when you are a horse. It was more than a little silly.

"I need to... I mean. May I see it?" Her cheeks went red. It was pleasant, if he had to be honest.

"May you?"

"I don't want you to get in any trouble!" She assured him, finally meeting his eyes with her own. They were a deep shade of aquamarine, still somewhat absent.

" I will. I always do." Why did he say that?

"Oh no!" She seemed genuinely upset by this. He was quick to reassure her.

"Not because of you!" Though was that really true? "But yes, of course you can see the horse." He led the girl to the stallion. It may not have been his best decision.

The girl -or was it woman?- pulled an apple from somewhere in her dress and her horse happily ate it out of her hand. "Does he get hungry?"

"I do feed him."

"But its different, coming from me. He's mine after all."

An odd mixture of irritation and admiration battled inside him that only grew more when the girl ran off quickly without a single word. He hadn't even gotten her name, not that it mattered. But she didn't seem the sort to just run off without giving a name. What was the point of all that? Usually they at least had some sort of scheme coming in here. She only had a treat. Maybe she wanted to give him encouragement for the derby? He supposed he would never know, but there was work to do, and it was a busy time to be doing it. The derby preparation was still ongoing and it was a big one.

Though if the girl's horse was racing, maybe he'd see here again.

Even though he was supposed to remain impartial, or he assumed he was supposed to, apart from remaining uncorrupt of course, he felt himself hoping the girl's horse would win something.

It didn't, and he didn't see her again throughout the derby.

*

The derby paid fair enough for sure but it was over too soon. And when they no longer had a need for him he was back to looking for work, wherever he could get it. He needed money after all, living was hardly free. It was a while before he saw her again, but see her again he did.

He was working down at the docks at the time. He hadn’t bothered to correct his employer on his name. As far as he was concerned a Fisher was good for a seaman. And it paid, which was better than most things he could say about the job.

In any case, it was dark out, and he was meant to be heading home soon. There weren’t many people still out and about. No one in calling distance, at the very least. Except for her. She was standing there at the edge of the dock, wearing a white gown that was certainly out of place for the setting. She was holding a glass of something, wine perhaps, which she did not drink but rather poured out slowly, a little at a time, into the ocean. She looked like a ghost, and if he hadn’t known better he would have thought that she was. Perhaps he shouldn’t have known better. But it would be too strange for her to appear to him here as a spirit, after only one conversation. 

He didn’t know if he had meant to talk to her. He probably shouldn’t have, but then, what if something happened? He couldn’t just leave if she was here for…

“I know you.” She said, turning to look at him.

“I… worked the derby last spring.” He replied. “You were there. With your father?” He quickly looked around, took stock of their surroundings. There was no one else around. Still, there was something dangerous hovering in the cold night chill.He didn’t like it. The sky was too open, the water’s depth seemingly endless underneath. Her eyes followed his and she looked up at the sky. There were stars.

“Do you work here now?” She asked, still looking up.

He looked up too. Only stars. “Yes, I… Yes.”

“Why?”

“…For the money…?” He supposed a rich girl wouldn’t know.

“Oh.”

“I did like the horses though. I… cared for them…” Something in her tone had made him defensive. He didn’t like it. He should go. What if something did happen, and he was the only one here? It would… not look good, to say the least. “I have to—”

“I know.”

“…What?”

She looked around again. “Can you ah… accompany me? If you would? There were… these men…”

“Ah that’s…” What kind of person would say no? What kinds of terrible trouble would he be seeing after he said yes?

“If you’re busy…”

“No! No that’s not… I’m finished here if…” He took a deep breath and looked into her eyes, which had been intently focused on him for who knew how long now. It was dark and he hadn’t been… “Where do you need to go?”

“Not here.” She said, “and not… Not home. There’s a lodging house, McGully’s, its down the walk aways if you… wouldn’t mind?”

“But that’s…” A place he stayed a few nights a week, it wasn’t exactly reputable. “Why not home?”

“Not tonight.” Was all she said. Which was all well and good seeing as how he had no real business asking that.

She began to walk down the other end of the dock. “Are you coming? I don’t want—”

“Is it the guys down at McGully’s bothering you?” He asked, as he moved to walk beside her. Maybe he should move back a pace. Up a pace? To the side perhaps?

“Only a little. They’ll leave me be once I’m inside. I’m sure they aren’t too dangerous… Not to me at least… Most people try not to cross my father, you know?”

“I see.” He did not quite have the same luxury. Maybe he should just let this girl be. But then he’d be going to the same place anyway and the end result would be the same. His luck was already gone.

“I’m just afraid, out here alone.”

“Why are you out here alone?” Why not at home with her father?

She did not answer. “I’ve seen you at McGully’s. Do you live there t— Do you live there?”

“Only part time.”

“Do you have a room for tomight?”

“I will…” He did not like where that seemed to be going.

“Maybe I will see you in the morning as well.”

Jeremy let out a sigh of relief. Perhaps the girl was not as clueless as he had thought. “Yes. That’d be… Yes.”

She smiled at him and stopped. They were nearly there. There was a single man smoking on the terrace. Nothing too threatening. A light was on inside.

“You are getting a room here?”

“For the next few nights yes…”

“I’m going home tomorrow. I’ll see you in the morning before I go”

“I… Sure?” He did not know what else to say.

She turned to the lodging house, walked forward two steps, stopped suddenly and spun around, her hands flying up to cover her mouth in a dramatic gesture.

“Oh! I didn’t get your name!”

“Its… Jeremy Fisher.”

“Oh! Good! Jeremy… Jeremy Fisher. I’ll remember!” She again turned around and began walking toward the lodging house. Jeremy watched her go, trying to keep a smile off his face. It was easier to hide in the darkness of the night but. Yes there she was, running back across the street towards him…

“My name is Barbara Logan! Please don’t forget!”

He did not forget.

*

Barbara Logan had taken it upon herself to pay for his nightly lodgings. It was a tad shameful yes, quite an embarrassment. Definitely emasculating if he thought about it in that certain way he probably should not. But it was highly appreciated nonetheless.

It turned out he did not see her in the morning nor any other morning of his stay that week and he had almost written the entire meeting off as a fluke. A random coincidence in a city of strangers. What even were they but strangers? 

Then he got the offer. Stablehand at the Logan Estate, and if that weren’t enough, the money he’d be earning was certainly nothing to sneeze at. Of course he accepted the offer. It was a huge boon, a stroke of luck, too good to be true, except…

Except Mr. Logan _hated_ him. 

It was clear from the moment he had begun working for the man. The way he looked at him, spoke to him, watched him. It wasn’t anything he was unused to, no, but it did beg the question of why he had hired him in the first place. He obviously didn’t have to, he was barely even a friend of the man’s daughter. And Barbara had made it very clear that this was what they were. Not strangers, not acquaintances. Real, true, actual friends. Which made it all the more difficult that Mr. Logan wouldn’t let him anywhere near his daughter. He obviously thought the worst of him, no doubt about that, he had told him as much, in not so kind words.

It was altogether baffling that he had ever been hired here.

It happened one day, after he was through with his shift, he headed down for the river in the infrequent afternoon sun. Barbara Logan was already there. Hiding most like, completely alone. It was probable… no one even knew she was here. Oh. He should not be here. But… was it not too good a chance to pass up? To speak with her, here and now. There wasn’t anyone stopping him, and the likelihood of the elder Logan coming down here was… not high. He just wasn’t sure if he should…

She noticed him before he could deliberate any further, waving him down to the river bank.

He noticed as he neared her that she was standing in the river itself, the water rushing across her bare ankles. She, at least, must have been fairly confidant that her father would not find her here.

“Jeremy,” her voice cut into him somewhere, very deep. He wasn’t sure if he liked it. She took him by both of his hands and led him into the water, even though he was still wearing his boots.

“Barbara,” he replied, unsure of what else he could really say.

She stepped up onto his boots then and kissed him. It was strange, like he knew all along it was going to be this way, but he never quite realized until right that moment.

“Your father…” He protested weakly. Somehow his hands had made it to her waist and they… weren’t moving.

She shook her head though. “He knows I’m only here because of you…”

Ah. That made some sort of sense at least. But it brought up a whole slew of other questions not least among them…

“Why?”

She blinked at him like she didn’t understand the question. Perhaps she didn’t. “Jeremy…”

Her answer was wholly unsatisfying, but he kissed her anyway. 

*

He wasn’t afraid when the war came. It was odd. He always thought he would have been. He should have been. He was going away to fight, probably to die. It should be terrifying.

But, honestly, it wasn’t anymore terrifying a prospect than anything he was doing here. His life was terrifying already. Barbara had a hundred thousand plans but she could never really think any of them through. They spent more time than was probably healthy hiding away from Milford Logan arguing about plans for how to get away, stay away from Milford Logan. Barbara would tell him of what ideal she had and he would tell her all the ways it would surely go wrong. She always wanted to skip to the part of the plan where Milford relented and begged them to come home, together of course, or in their darker moments he would beg for her on his deathbed, or just simply die. Barbara wasn’t as fond of those plans, but even she could be worn down and frustrated sometimes.

Now he had a better plan though. Go to war. Probably die.

Barbara was an absolute wreck. It was an odd change of pace, but he felt much more like the manly protector and caregiver with Barbara sobbing into his shirt begging him not to go. He couldn’t not go, he told her. He was a soldier now. It made him proud somehow. Like he was already a hero, worthy of coming home to her and taking his place; the master of his own domain.

She had run off one day, while he was still tending to the horses, a fact made apparent to him when Milford Logan slammed open the stable door, spooking the gray stallion at his side, and seethed at him, “Where is my daughter, Fisher?”

He did not know, and he told the man as much, but the man’s eyes narrowed at him and he jabbed a single finger in his direction. “Get out. Now.”

Jeremy Fisher did as he was told. He supposed he wasn’t meant to go back, but he wan’t quite sure. It was no great loss as it wouldn’t be another week before he had to leave for the war or wherever he was being shipped to. It would have been devastating otherwise.

He found Barbara Logan down by the docks. 

“I don’t want you to go.” She said.

“I know.” He replied. “But its like this everywhere. You aren’t the only one…”

“I know!” She turned to glare at him, but it was weak, and faded quickly. “I… I don’t want to go home.”

He made what was in retrospect, probably a very poor decision. “Then stay with me.”

She did. The monogrammed kerchief she gave him the day he shipped out was a sweet favour yes, but certainly not the only parting gift she had given. And nothing at all next to the parting gift he had left with her.

He had a sneaking suspicion he wouldn’t see her again. And he was horribly, terribly right.


End file.
